


If You Were Real

by toewsyourheart



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Blow Jobs, First Kiss, First Meetings, Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-15
Updated: 2017-06-15
Packaged: 2018-11-14 14:50:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11210319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toewsyourheart/pseuds/toewsyourheart
Summary: “Hello, Patrick,” Jonathan greeted, casually matching his stride as they walked to the next hole. He thought it was friendly, unassuming enough, but he was met with only silence. “Prince Zachary got your tongue?”“Nobody’s got my tongue,” Patrick said brashly and instantaneous, much to Jonathan’s satisfaction. “But they did tell me not to talk to you.”-Or, Prince Jonathan of Manitoba is visiting New York to explore a possible, alliance-strengthening courtship with the Prince of States.Instead, he falls hard for his caddy.





	If You Were Real

**Author's Note:**

> I decided to post this today, for the two-year anniversary of our 2015 Stanley Cup win. What a time to be alive. 
> 
> Shout out to heartstrings and kat for being my extra eyes.

Jonathan knew it wasn't proper. His unexpected, overwhelming… interest in the boy. 

From the first moment Jonathan saw him, he struggled to look away, thankful his sunglasses somewhat hid the direction of his gaze. He was caddying for the Prince of States, his eyes wild with defiance as he handed Zachary his driver and gave a stiff, non-traditional bow. The sun, hot and bright above them, added gorgeous depth and dimension to his blonde, unruly curls.

Unruly, Jonathan soon learned, like his mouth.

For nine holes, his eyes seemed to find him in every period of rest—between shots, putts, during idle conversation with the Prince. Sometimes Jonathan found him looking back, only ever briefly, once caught. Eventually, his curiosity grew to be too much.

“What's his name?” Jonathan asked his own caddy, a young girl named Chelsea, barely bold enough to look him in the eye for an extended period when they first met. He never thought himself intimidating, but alas, her voice wavered as she spoke.

“P-Patrick, Your Highness,” she answered, “Patrick Kane.

“Patrick Kane,” Jonathan repeated, and Chelsea opened her mouth, as if to say something more, then promptly closed it. Jonathan did his best to mask his frustration with a warm smile. “You may speak freely, Chelsea. We’re on a golf course, not holding court.”

It wasn't court, though sometimes outings like these felt as taxing. The endless small talk, devoid of substance; the pressure to smile, remain pleasant in the face of it; the palace-commissioned photographers skulking about to take advantage, waiting for the opportune moment to capture candid shots of Princes from neighboring countries. Allied countries, with, frankly, unrealistic expectations for the two of them.

None of it was anything Jonathan wasn't wholly accustomed to, but still, he longed for a spark of excitement to break up the monotony of his duties. Holding hands and skipping circles with Prince Zachary wasn't cutting it, and the thought of spending another day here, let alone the week promised to explore their nonexistent connection, had him deeply considering a dive off the bridge on hole ten. At least the coolness of the lake would provide relief from the stifling heat.

Chelsea remained silent, so Jonathan took it upon himself to press the issue.

“Is Patrick always paired with Prince Zachary?”

“Mostly, Your Highness,” Chelsea said, her expression neutral. “He's a bit… unprofessional, at times.” She chose her words carefully. “Today, he was meant for you, but we would never want to offend.”

“So he's offensive, then?” Jonathan asked, chuckling to himself as he watched Patrick counsel Prince Zachary at the putting green, then tilt his head skyward in clear disdain when Zachary botched the shot, the ball curving far left of its mark.

Jonathan admired his impeccable bone structure as he closed his eyes tightly in frustration, the fullness of his lips as he blew out a breath, and waited for his answer.

“A bit,” Chelsea said.

Then, as if he could hear them, Patrick jerked his head in their direction, and Jonathan thought, perhaps, to experience a little offensiveness would suit him well.

-

“Hello, Patrick,” Jonathan greeted, casually matching his stride as they walked to the next hole. He thought it was friendly, unassuming enough, but he was met with only silence. It simply wouldn't do. Jonathan was sure he knew just the thing to bait him.

“Prince Zachary got your tongue?”

“Nobody’s got my tongue,” Patrick said brashly and instantaneous, much to Jonathan’s satisfaction. “But they did tell me not to talk to you.” Then, remembering himself, he added, “Your Highness."

“Who did?” Jonathan asked, amused.

In much closer than he had been all day, it was easy to catalogue Patrick’s features—some delicate, others bold—all of them startlingly gorgeous. He possessed a strong jawline and prominent eyebrows, with soft dimples and a gentle upturn at the tip of his nose. He estimated Patrick to be three, maybe four years his junior 

“The easier question would be, who _didn't_ tell me not to,” Patrick replied, followed with another delayed, “Your Highness,” as if unaccustomed to addressing someone in Jonathan’s position.

“You don’t have to keep saying that,” Jonathan allowed, “If you don't want to.”

“I don't,” Patrick said, blatant, but somehow, without rudeness. It was the most honesty Jonathan had received in some time, and he felt giddy, stifled a sigh of relief.

“You could call me Jonny,” he found himself saying, much to his own surprise. Price Zachary hadn’t even been given permission to address him that informally. Patrick slowed to a stop, narrowed his eyes. Jonathan stopped, too.

“Why?” He sounded highly suspicious, at best, and mildly offended, at worst.

Jonathan, it turned out, didn't have a suitable answer to that—not one he could voice while also maintaining his dignity and, the appearance, at least, of sanity. So instead, as they resumed their walk, he asked, “What are your thoughts on the next hole?”

“That ol’ Zachary here’s going to royally screw up whatever I tell him no matter what.”

Jonathan’s laughter escaped him, and suddenly, it struck him that it was the first time he had done it all day, at poor Zachary’s expense no less. Certainly, his skills were nonexistent, but insults were rarely thrown a Prince’s way.

Patrick lived up to his reputation.

“I won't,” Jonathan said, confidently. He lacked the need for Patrick’s assistance, but he wanted it, anyway.

“You want me to commit treason?” Patrick asked, the corner of his mouth twitching into a half-smile at his own joke.

Jonathan chuckled again, growing embarrassed of his own openness. “I won't tell if you don't.”

Patrick looked at him as they reached their destination, tongue and teeth playing at his lower lip, and for a moment, Jonathan allowed himself to imagine that they were discussing something else entirely. The air felt thick, heavy between them, and Patrick, without the protection afforded to Jonathan by his sunglasses, was fully exposed when he let his eyes boldly ease down Jonathan’s chest, then back up.

His hint of a smile grew infinitesimally wider, satisfied with what he saw, presumably, and Jonathan took a split second to give thanks for Prince Zachary’s preoccupation with Chelsea. Sweet, blessed Chelsea.

“Deal.”

-

“Do you play?” Jonathan asked him, as they waited for Zachary to take his next shot. Nearby, Chelsea watched them nervously, while members of Zachary’s guard, and Jonathan’s own, set the perimeter.

Jonathan felt oddly anxious, too, for a much different reason. Being monitored was a nonnegotiable protocol, but he felt protective of their privacy; he wanted Patrick’s unfiltered thoughts, though he had no right to them.

“Nope,” Patrick answered, without further elaboration. He had given Jonathan the perfect advice on the last hole, informed him of the difficult slope that Jonathan, with his own eye, would have underestimated.

“You seem to know a lot about it,” Jonathan said, and Patrick shrugged, dismissive.

“I know a lot about a lot of things.”

“Is that so?” Jonathan asked, unreasonably desperate to learn his interests, to explore them.

“It is so,” Patrick confirmed, slightly mocking, but Jonathan felt it good-natured, a step in the right direction. “Angles, for one.”

They paused to watch as Zachary’s ball hit the embankment and, unsurprisingly, rolled into the sand trap.

“Christ,” Patrick mumbled to himself, nearly unintelligibly, then shook his head, as if to dispel the thought of Zachary’s performance altogether. “Got a good one for you here…” He stalled for dramatic effect. “Don’t do what Prince Mulligan just did.”

“Genius,” Jonathan teased.

“My middle name,” Patrick said. He was clever, perhaps too clever for his own good, and, unquestionably, too clever to be working such a mundane, thankless job.

Then, Chelsea approached, though Jonathan might have missed it had she not spoken. “Your driver, Your Highness.”

“Oh, thank you, Chelsea.”

Jonathan took the club and approached the tee with a critical eye to the fairway. He wondered, as he assumed his stance, if Patrick was watching. With a deep breath and a shift of balance, he took his shot, which soared beyond Zachary’s and landed just short of the green.

Not bad.

Much to his disappointment, Jonathan turned to discover that Patrick was nowhere to be found, and it took a moment to spot him, dragged off to the side of the cart path by a member of Zachary’s guard. Patrick was, it appeared, being chastised for something.

Before Jonathan could come up with a suitable reason not to, he moved to intervene, stomping right by Zachary, who was in route to his ball in the bunker. As he approached, he caught bits and pieces of a one-sided conversation.

“—told you to leave the Prince alone. To be seen and not heard—”

“Is there a problem?” Jonathan interrupted, displeasure thick in his voice. The guard jumped. Patrick did not flinch, but kept his eyes to the ground.

“Your Highness, forgive me if this one has been—”

“This one?” Jonathan interrupted again, cocking his head to the side in faux-confusion. “And here I thought his name was Patrick.”

“It is, Your Highness,” the guard amended, clearly taken aback, “Has Patrick bothered you?”

“You’re bothering me more,” Jonathan said flatly, “He’s done his job well. Leave us.”

“As you wish, Your Highness,” the guard stuttered, bowing quickly and backing away without so much as an additional glance in Patrick’s direction. Jonathan watched him retreat to his position, then looked to Patrick to find him staring, brows furrowed.

“I didn't need you to do that,” Patrick said, mouth set, hands fisted at his sides. Jonathan resisted the urge to take them into his own and unfurl each finger, one by one, until Patrick relaxed.

“You didn't deserve to be spoken to that way for nothing, either,” Jonathan told him.

“For nothing, huh?” Patrick countered with a raised brow, self-aware enough to recognize that his behavior wasn't exactly in line with the expected.

“I’m enjoying your company,” Jonathan said, attempting to match his candor. He didn't miss the slight flush that rose to Patrick's cheeks. “In fact, I’d like to officially steal you from Zachary, if you'll have me.”

“Why?” Patrick asked again, in the same skeptical tone, clearly unused to someone going out of their way for him. The realization pained Jonathan. It simply wouldn't do.

“Does it matter?”

“The guards are going to shit themselves,” Patrick warned, and Jonathan gave a mischievous smile in return.

“Let them.”

-

Zachary hardly gave more than a puzzled look at the switch, too simple to realize the extent of what had occurred, most likely.

“Defecting, huh, Patrick? My bag too heavy for you?” he joked, and Patrick laughed, obnoxiously put on, along with him instead of answering outright.

Jonathan found himself chuckling, too, smiling widely, more at the prospect of having Patrick to himself for the remainder of the course than anything else.

“I felt his expertise was giving you an unfair advantage,” Jonathan told Zachary, and Patrick half-choked on another laugh.

“Tiger-fucking-Woods couldn't help this guy,” he whispered after he regained his composure, and Jonathan had to bite his lip to keep a straight face. Then, much to Jonathan’s complete surprise, Patrick nudged him gently. “You hurt the snitch’s feelings.”

“What?” Jonathan asked, then it clicked into place.

Chelsea. She had warned the guard that Patrick was, in her eyes, overstepping his bounds, disobeying orders. Now, she’d been traded off to Zachary. Jonathan felt guilty, but not enough so to reverse the switch.

“Should I say something?”

“Why’re you askin’ me?” Patrick said, “She threw me to the wolves.”

“How will you ever recover?” Jonathan teased, and Patrick gave a close-mouthed, dimpled smile that ripped through Jonathan’s chest

Patrick asked, almost shyly, “Does everybody talk like you in your country?”

Jonathan wasn't sure he’d ever given much thought to a comparison. “Hmm. I suppose not. My family is—” Proper. Old-fashioned. Strict. If they knew he was ignoring Prince Zachary in favor of his caddy, they would undoubtedly blow a fuse, or shit themselves, as Patrick so eloquently phrased it. He didn't say any of that, and instead, shrugged, “It's just the way I was raised.”

“Very, uh, Princely.”

Patrick said it like a dirty word, different from ones he seemed to use normally. His eyelashes, Jonathan noticed then, were quite long, as mesmerizing as the cool, blue eyes they surrounded.

He could get lost in them, easily, if he just…

“You could say that.”

“Prince Zachary doesn't talk like you,” Patrick noted, and Jonathan huffed.

“Zachary means well, but he’s about as deep as the puddle he just retrieved his ball from.”

Patrick laughed. He laughed.

Jonathan made him laugh, sincerely, and it was the best damned thing to grace his ears all day.

“Courtship not going well then?” Patrick asked tentatively, with a nonchalance that came off slightly forced, in Jonathan's opinion. Perhaps it was wishful thinking on his part, that Patrick might care.

“There is no courtship,” Jonathan informed him, matter of fact. He found it interesting that rumors of one were already in circulation, since he never agreed to such a thing. Their current visit was a trial-period only, the preliminaries, in a sense, that would not advance another round. “Nor will there ever be.”

“You get to say?”

Jonathan couldn’t remember the last time he’d been asked so many personal questions outside of a media engagement, especially by a person to whom he was actually willing to give whole, truthful answers.

“My parents won't be thrilled, but yes, it's up to me,” Jonathan explained. Patrick nodded, considering.

“Oh.”

“You thought they would force me?” Jonathan asked.

“They're forcing you to do this, aren't they?”

“Well, yes,” Jonathan conceded, “But a single day of this versus a lifetime is a huge difference. They know I won't settle for anything less than something real.”

Patrick didn't answer, chewing on the inside of his cheek, distracting as it was. A moment of silence passed, Jonathan’s words hanging between them.

“I've said an awful lot here,” Jonathan pointed out curiously, a slow, purposefully suspicious smile consuming his face in attempts to lighten the mood. “You’re not some mole for the States’ paper, are you?”

Patrick huffed an incredulous laugh. “No,” he said, then, so quietly Jonathan wasn't positive he heard it correctly, or even heard it at all, “I'm real.”

-

“Are you in school, Patrick?” Jonathan asked, hoping to get Patrick to lower his walls, to share some things with him.

There was so much he wanted to know, and they were nearing the fifteenth hole. The growing numbers haunted him, counting down their time together, alerting Jonathan to how little they had left.

Three more. Just three…

Then what?

“I will be,” Patrick said with utter surety, then he seemed to falter, “I mean, eventually I will be.”

“What is it that interests you?”

Patrick gazed at him for a beat, then two, an internal struggle clear in his eyes, searching Jonathan’s. He was leaned against Jonathan's bag, his casual position betraying the tension in his neck and shoulders. Before he spoke, he looked away, to watch Zachary digging his ball out of the rough.

His voice was quiet. “When you ask me things, you sound like you care.”

“Patrick, I—” Jonathan started, words stuck in his throat, unaccustomed to having his sincerity so often questioned. He stepped closer and took a chance, without caring much who would see. With the lightest of touches, he grazed his knuckle down the exposed skin at the back of Patrick’s arm, in a gesture meant to reassure. Patrick flinched at the contact, then, thankfully, settled under it. “I wouldn't ask, if I didn't.”

“Why do you?”

That was the million-dollar question, wasn't it?

“I feel… drawn to you, I don't know,” Jonathan fumbled through his answer. “I can't explain it, Patrick, but I find it difficult to see beyond you.”

“You don't know anything about me,” Patrick said, careful to direct his eyes anywhere, everywhere else.

It was true. It made no sense for Jonathan to feel so strongly, and yet…

“I want to,” Jonathan told him.

The silence stretched out between them, long and empty, but for the sounds of birds chirping, the buzzing of bees, and Prince Zachary, talking animatedly to Chelsea. Sweet, blessed Chelsea.

“You think you do,” Patrick murmured, then he blew out a breath, deep and calming. Jonathan felt anything but, his stomach twisted in knots. “But if you knew that I’m dirt poor, that I'm not in school and working this stupid job because I have to help take care of my mom and my sisters, that's about as deep as you'd wanna get, I think.”

“Patrick,” Jonathan said, itching to help somehow, even if no way, that Patrick’s pride would allow, existed. “That's not true.”

Patrick turned to him. “See, you're already doing it.”

“Doing what?”

“Looking at me like a charity case.”

“No,” Jonathan objected, “Taking care of your family before yourself is honorable, Patrick. It’s not to be pitied. You don't need it from me, just as you didn't need my help with the guard.”

“I really didn’t,” Patrick reiterated, “They yell at me all the time.”

“Because they can't tame you,” Jonathan said, “You say what you want, do as you please. I admire that so much.”

“I want to be an architect,” Patrick answered after a minute, just as Jonathan had begun to fear he wouldn't say anything more. “And build buildings that disappear into the clouds.”

“I can't wait to visit one,” Jonathan said, and with everything in him, he meant it.

-

Entirely too soon, the course came to an end.

“I don't even want to look at the scorecard,” Zachary said companionably, as they walked toward the clubhouse. “You annihilated me.”

Jonathan tried to smile, but it fell flat amidst the thoughts swirling in his head. “You put up a good fight, Zachary.”

“No, he didn't,” Patrick chimed in, uninspired but expected, and Jonathan’s chest ached, a throb that reached every part of him.

Would it be the last he saw of Patrick? Of his beautiful, blue eyes? Of his golden curls and sassy mouth? Jonathan wanted more time, to feel it on his, perhaps, to feel him…

It wasn't proper.

Zachary chuckled, and Jonathan found, then, an appreciation in his ability to laugh at himself. He would make someone happy; it just wouldn't be Jonathan. Zachary, he thought, sensed it, maybe even felt similarly. Not all things were meant to be in this life.

Once they reached the door, Jonathan stalled just outside, waiting for a chance to talk to Patrick alone. He approached, mouth set in a hard line, with eyes that pierced straight through him.

Before Jonathan could speak, Patrick gave a stiff bow, and said, “It was a pleasure to meet you, Your Highness. I hope my company and services were adequate, and—”

“Patrick—" 

“—that the remainder of your stay in the States treats you well.”

“— _please_.”

His words were a punch to the gut, leaving nothing more to be said. All Jonathan could see were possibilities coming to an end, in the form of Patrick’s back as he retreated from him, and a flash of curls before he quickly disappeared inside.

-

Jonathan sat in his personal changing room with his head in his hands, thankful for a moment alone before facing Prince Zachary, or anyone else.

It was difficult to breathe, harder to think clearly. Their time together had been so brief, Jonathan felt ridiculous, out of his mind over his own emotions. It was senseless, but Patrick had stirred something inside him that had remained untouched for some time. He challenged him, excited him, pushed him. In just a few short hours, Jonathan found promise of what it was he searched for.

“I'm real,” Patrick had said.

He treated Jonathan, first and foremost, like a person, rather than Price of Manitoba. He made him feel real, too.

“ _I’m real_.”

Patrick was, which meant that his rejection was as well. Unless Jonathan wildly overstepped, he would never see him again

He would never see him again.

Jonathan was interrupted by a door, that he wrongly assumed to be a closet, opening to his left. He didn't bother to look up. It could only be a member of his guard, and unless he had completely lost himself, he was certain he asked for solitude.

“Was I unclear?” Jonathan grumbled. “I want to be left alone.”

“I can't do that, Jonny,” came an unexpected voice. It could belong only to the one person in the entire country, not of his own company, bold enough to greet him so informally.

“Patrick,” Jonathan breathed in and out in a shaken rush, rising to his feet. “What are you doing here?”

Patrick took a step forward, then another. “I—I couldn't leave it like—” Another step. “I didn't mean what happened.”

He took another, until he stood directly before him, wringing out his hands in nervousness.

“You don't owe me anything,” Jonathan insisted. He forced himself into a half-smile. “It’s truly okay.”

“It's not,” Patrick said, “But I'm not an idiot either, okay? I know this can't ever—” He struggled, just as Jonathan struggled. “I just couldn't let it go without seeing.”

With nothing more than a deep, resolved inhale as preamble, Patrick sank to his knees, and in one fluid motion, let his hands push up Jonathan’s thighs.

Jonathan gasped quietly, floored, yet again, by Patrick. At every turn, he surprised, exceeded expectations. But Jonathan couldn't possibly, not without first having Patrick hear him, even as his body screamed for it.

“You don't have to,” Jonathan blurted. His mind drifted to instances with others, where his attention brought similar offerings; some out of strange, misplaced devotion, others emptied of true feeling, in search of perks of the crown. With Patrick, he couldn't imagine the thought of either scenario, or stand the idea of himself, or anyone else, taking advantage. “I don't expect it, Patrick. I’d never carelessly take from you.”

Patrick leaned in, hands easing around the back of Jonathan's legs to squeeze. “Jonny, would I be down here if I didn't wanna be?” he asked, brushing his cheek against the fabric of Jonathan's slacks, breathing deeply, in and out, rebellious desire permeating his every action.

“No,” Jonathan answered, sure of it as his own arousal.

It was still difficult to breathe, harder to think clearly. Hearing Patrick freely use his name, having him so close…

“Exactly,” Patrick said, then, “Let me.”

“Whatever you want,” Jonathan replied, pulse racing. It took a great deal of effort to keep still as Patrick opened his pants, just far enough to comfortably slip his cock from its confines.

“Yeah,” Patrick said, dragging his lips appreciatively along the length.

“Fuck,” Jonathan cursed, unthinking, hips canting forward.

“Got you forgetting your manners,” Patrick said as he introduced his tongue, teasing Jonathan to full hardness.

“You make me forget a lot of things,” Jonathan confessed, melting under Patrick’s ministrations, the pressure of his responsibilities, his apprehensions, fading to the background. “Can I touch you?”

Patrick nodded, fitting his mouth, hot and wet, over the head, then swallowed him down as far as he could, using his hand in fumbled strokes to make up the difference. He groaned when Jonathan immediately found his curls, tugging at them, and the sound, the overwhelming sensation, went straight to Jonathan’s middle.

It was sloppy, enthusiastic, perfect, and Jonathan moved to curve his hand around the back of Patrick’s neck, so Patrick could feel, with each flex of his fingers, how much he enjoyed it. He leaned over, and with his other hand, traced Patrick's spine to the center of his back, and moaned when Patrick hollowed his cheeks, sucking him in earnest.

“I couldn't’ve dreamed this, Patrick,” Jonathan said, on the brink of his orgasm much too quickly, and with a flick of Patrick’s tongue, hard suction at the head, and a twist of his wrist, Jonathan came with a groan. He tried to pull Patrick back, but he only forced himself down until he nearly choked, swallowing everything Jonathan had to give. It was too much, a sensory overload, total euphoria.

Jonathan lowered himself to the seat behind him, head thunking against the wall, eyes closed. His breathing was rough, and he felt and heard, rather than saw, Patrick pull off with a pop and get to his feet. He blinked to focus after a moment of collection, and found, much to his complete alarm, that Patrick had his gaze to the ground, a startling aura of hesitance about him.

“Do you want me to—I guess I should go?” Patrick mumbled.

“Absolutely not,” Jonathan said, reaching out to capture Patrick’s wrist and tug him down beside him. He cupped Patrick’s face in his hand, thumbing across his cheekbone. “I can't kiss you if you go.”

“That’s true,” Patrick whispered, inching closer with every second that passed between them. Jonathan moved to meet him, tenderly pressing their lips together for the first time. His were soft, warm… so warm.

“Did you think I wouldn't reciprocate?”

“I didn’t wanna assume anything,” Patrick admitted.

Jonathan gave a second, gentle kiss, the very act of it humbling. He was kissing Patrick. He could taste himself. “You can assume I want you just as badly.”

Patrick deepened the kiss, settled into it, into himself, and asked, with an edge of cockiness now, “You gonna get on your knees for me?”

“If that's what would please you,” Jonathan said, though the position was not one familiar to him. In his experience, it signified subservience or punishment, obedience. Though he never felt Patrick more powerful, more in control, than when he was on his knees for him moments ago, the concept itself was foreign to Jonathan, even as he recognized the double-standard; a Prince knelt only for his King.

His mind warred with his body, the heady desire and willingness he felt instead, at the prospect of giving that part of himself to Patrick, clashing, momentarily, with custom.

“It is,” Patrick confirmed, voice low and husky, and it was simple to overcome, in the face of that. Jonathan ultimately wished to give as he had received, to leave nothing uneven between them in ways he could control, so he eased to the floor, into the spread of Patrick’s thighs, his cheeks flushing a gorgeous crimson.

It was exhilarating, frightening, illicit in its newness; even more so with his guard just outside the door, though he hadn't spared a thought for them while Patrick touched him. He rested his hands on Patrick’s thighs, and first, leaned up to kiss him, venturing to his neck, to explore and to hide his face during his next confession.

“I've never done this,” Jonathan murmured against sensitive skin, if Patrick’s squirming was any indication. “Be patient with me.”

“You really can't screw it up,” Patrick said, and it came out a whine as Jonathan pressed their lips together once more, unable to help himself before sitting back on his heels. “Not when I’m—”

Patrick was hard, the bulge of his cock visible in his pants. It encouraged Jonathan to see that he wasn't the only one affected by what Patrick had done to him. He remembered how Patrick teased, and brought his mouth down to mold to the shape of him over the fabric.

“ _Jonny_.”

Patrick pushed his fingers through Jonathan’s hair, brushing the longer bits away from his face on the way to his shoulders, kneading at muscle. “God, you’re jacked,” he noted, as if the thought plagued him as he moved along and he couldn't keep it in another second. “Coulda carried your own bag and Zachary’s.”

“And maybe you, too,” Jonathan added with a wink, and Patrick chuckled, breathy with anticipation as Jonathan unbuttoned his pants.

“Don’t let it go to your head,” Patrick said, amused, delicately petting Jonathan's hair again. It felt amazing, gentle in a way that softened Patrick’s perceived hardness. He wasn't, really, at all.

“Wouldn't dream of it,” Jonathan answered, taking Patrick through the slit in his underwear and into his hand. He was thick, heavy, and without giving Patrick time to adjust to the touch of his fingers, he went in with his mouth, mindful of his teeth and careful to apply proper pressure.

The motion was disjointed in the beginning, but soon enough, Jonathan established a rhythm that seemed to suit Patrick fine, evident in the uncontrolled way his hips began to lift off the seat and meet his mouth. Jonathan draped an arm over his lap to hold him down, and Patrick made a noise of pure pleasure, as if he liked that even more.

“Holy shit,” Patrick gasped, “Shit, Jonny.”

Jonathan moaned around his cock, defenseless, still, to Patrick using his name without a second thought. He sucked harder, sped his hand, and then pulled off as Patrick lost himself, spilling over Jonathan’s fist with a choked groan, eyes screwed shut and knuckles gone white where he gripped the wooden bench.

It was a feeling akin to coming again himself, watching Patrick give everything over to him in his release. He never wanted it to end, never wanted to leave that moment in that room with him, uncertain if it would ever be again. No matter what happened once they walked out, Jonathan would never forget it.

He grabbed a towel from nearby to clean them, wiping Patrick and his own hand as best he could. Then, he tucked Patrick’s softening cock back into his pants and pressed up between them to see to him, pleased to find him sated and smiling, almost bashfully, despite the realities that awaited them.

Jonathan kissed him, and Patrick’s fingers found his hair again, anchoring him in place for Patrick to take his mouth. He liked to lead, Jonathan learned, to use his skillful tongue with precision, in desperate kisses that embodied the tug-of-war of fear and desire Jonathan sensed within him; his hard edges, brought by the burdens of responsibility and struggle, with the part that was young, that longed to be loved and love back.

Patrick pulled away to search Jonathan’s eyes. There was a yearning, an aching concern over questions unanswered, reflected back to him in blue.

Patrick asked only one of them. “What now?”

“Well first,” Jonathan said, smiling, “I guess I need to update my security, since you managed to waltz right in here.”

It had the desired effect. Patrick huffed a laugh and gave a dimpled grin. “Really though,” he started with remembered disbelief, “That one dude just let me right in. I didn't even have to burn through the lie I had ready.”

“What did this ‘one dude’ look like?” Jonathan asked suspiciously, sure he already knew.

“Big, bearded, sleepy,” Patrick spouted off.

Seabrook.

It was an apt description and unsurprising to hear. As head of his guard, Brent had been with him since day one of his official duties, watched after him, served as his guiding hand. He wouldn't hesitate to meddle in Jonathan’s affairs if he saw fit.

“Golf bores him,” Jonathan said, offhand, curious about Patrick’s prepared lie, but too distracted to inquire about it. “Remind me to thank him.”

“For both of us,” Patrick said, then, beseeching, “ _Jonathan_.”

“Where will you be tomorrow?” Jonathan asked, leading, and Patrick blinked at him until a smile began to play at his lips.

“I'll be here.”

Jonathan took Patrick’s face in his hands and said, with the utmost finality, “Then so will I.”

-

“What should we do tomorrow?” Prince Zachary asked as they neared the car, headed out for a meal. “We could visit the stables? Or explore the city?”

“You know, Zachary, I do enjoy this course,” Jonathan admitted, and Zachary grinned, much too knowingly, for Jonathan’s comfort.

“The course, huh?”

Jonathan felt his cheeks flame, the heat overtake him. “Zachary, I—”

“I directed him to your changing room, Jonathan,” Zachary said, apparently hoarding confessions of his own. “I’d never seen him throw anything but daggers at anybody else before today. Who would I be if I stood in the way of that?”

“It's not proper,” Jonathan found himself saying, even if it didn't make a difference.

“Does it matter?” Zachary asked him, echoing the direction of his own thoughts.

Jonathan glanced back toward the clubhouse, relieved to find Patrick beneath the shadow of the porch, leaned against the railing to watch them go.

“ _I'm real_ ,” Patrick had said. Jonathan kept his eyes on him as he answered Zachary.

“No, it doesn't.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading and commenting, if you're into that! 
> 
> Come find me on tumblr @[toewsme1988](http://toewsme1988.tumblr.com) & twitter @[seabsneckbeard ](https://twitter.com/seabsneckbeard)!


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